


On Winter Nights When the Dark Comes Early (Holding On To Something Half Forgotten)

by ohmygoshwhatascream



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, M/M, but kinda fluffy?, events after weathertop, i guess, idk how to describe it tbh but like vague?, introspective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-05
Updated: 2019-12-05
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:35:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21683071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmygoshwhatascream/pseuds/ohmygoshwhatascream
Summary: It’s cold. So cold. But just beyond the darkness, there is something.It’s warm and safe and he cannot remember what it is, but he knows that he must hold on.For if he lets go, he will not come back.
Relationships: Frodo Baggins/Sam Gamgee
Comments: 7
Kudos: 33





	On Winter Nights When the Dark Comes Early (Holding On To Something Half Forgotten)

**Author's Note:**

> honestly peak confession: I’ve never read LotR and I’ve only seen the movies once about a month ago. 
> 
> I’ve been meaning to read the books but uhh.... life’s been to hectic man. 
> 
> basically, I’ve read around LotR a lot so I do have some idea with what I’m going on about but, like, I’m still very new to this world so hopefully I’ve managed to capture the characters at least somewhat. 
> 
> TLDR; thanks, hyperfixation!

His shoulder hurts with a pain like no other. Like darkness, its cold creeps under his skin in shadows of failing sunlight until he can no longer see the way ahead. 

There is nothing, just a bleak, endless void. He cannot see the end, but he can feel the cold claws of something wicked pulling him back. They wrap around his arms, his legs, his neck. He is trapped and they pull him down, pull him under, drown him in the all consuming darkness. 

The wound is tainted, blackened tar that mars his skin like an unbreakable curse. He longs to follow it, to succumb to its whispers and to let it take all; erase him until there is nothing left but the silhouette of what had once been. 

_Forget,_ his mind whispers. _Forget yourself, and there will be no pain. No suffering. You will be gone and you will be free._

Yet there is something to hold on to, something that he cannot let go of, not ever. While his mind rests in turmoil, he cannot give into those whispers. There is something to do, a task he must complete.

There is somebody there, waiting for him. He cannot disappoint them. He cannot leave them. 

A name lingers on his lips, sounds that he cannot form but something familiar, something he can faintly remember, a half-forgotten dream. 

Green fields and the first flowers of spring. Hands that are warm against his own and eyes that light up the darkness like fire. Woodsmoke, the smell of freshly baked bread. Humming in the early morning, vases of yellow chrysanthemums. They are memories of what had once been, a life the darkness is trying to hide. There is a face, though, that he cannot forget. Hands that he can still feel through the never-ending cold. There is someone waiting for him, looking after him, and he must return to them. 

He holds on tight to those hands in his, so full of life against his dead ones, and the shadows leap back until he can see tear stained cheeks and golden hair. _That face._ It is _them,_ the one who will never let go. The one who will hold on, to the very end. 

“Mr Frodo.” They say, over and over again. Their voice is sad; broken and forlorn. He longs to reach out to them, wipe the tears from under their eyes and feel the sunshine of their hair through his cold fingers. 

But he cannot.

He cannot move, cannot take away their pain and make it all better. He can only hold on. Hold on tight to their warm, rough hands. Never let go. 

He murmurs something, a word that he thinks is a name, or something important. He can’t remember. The darkness is everywhere, but he looks at the light, the glow of their touch, and feels safe.

“Sam.” He whispers, his voice barely a croak. _Sam._ The word is familiar on his tongue. It tastes sweet, fresh, like home. (For he must have had a home. He cannot remember its name, nor where it was nor who they are, but he knows with certainty that it feels like home.)

The hand in his squeezes tighter and he feels warmth against his forehead, the press of a soft kiss. 

His vision blurs and unconsciousness takes him, but the darkness of his mind is lit up by gold.

**Author's Note:**

> just wrote this out after school so it’s not good at all and it’s way too short but regardless, hope y’all enjoyed it x


End file.
